


Mishpahhah

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [4]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: You carry your family with you, whether you want the pieces or not.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan & Shoshanna Tahan, Bettino Tahan & Vincenzo Tahan
Series: Tender Mercies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175
Kudos: 1





	Mishpahhah

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a thought piece I guess?
> 
> Bettino is born on 5 January, 1986
> 
> Vincenzo Tahan is murdered in late December 2003, and he's buried 5 Jan, 2004.

Shoshanna Tahan was a waif of a woman, gaunt faced and narrow boned. Her brown hair brought warmth to her waxen features, always cut short, loosely pulled back and wildly curly; eyes coal black, always watching with the heat of the sun. Despite her rigid posture she barely graced five feet tall, and she used to lift him under the arms and spin, spin, spin, broad smile on her small face, larger than life and vibrant with hope and with love. 

When he was young she’d sit down for hours and sketch with him, her delicate hands so clever with a bit of charcoal, and she would smile so hard at the shaky drawing he produced that all of her teeth showed, the corners of her eyes would scrunch, and Bettino could catch a glimpse of what she’d look like at sixty, at eighty. He remembers that clearly even now, how she could hardly take her eyes off of him, the way her fingers would lightly trace over his lines with something like wonder, something like reverence. She laced together a sketchbook for him by hand one day when he was nine; thick, heavy paper and a leather cover– it went everywhere with him. He drew at school, on the steps of their apartment building, in the park. He drew his classmates, dogs he’d seen walking, plant life that caught his eye. He filled a hundred sketchbooks, and his mother always made him a new one with a fond smile and a warm laugh, handing it over the worn counter top of the stationary shop they ran. 

She called him _ahuv_ , and she’d called him _ahava shel ima_ , and when she walked him to school in the morning her warm hand never left the nape of his neck. She’d kiss him on the forehead– he remembers pretending to be embarrassed about it in front of the other children, squealing and squirming but throwing his arms around her narrow shoulders anyway, as if she could spend the day with him at school. 

When he was thirteen he came home with bloodied knuckles, and she’d despaired of him. She’d clutched him close and she’d sobbed for what felt like hours, and he’d realized he was as tall as her, now. He’d promised her he would be good. 

He’d just learned not to get caught. 

His father, well. Vincenzo Tahan was a giant of a man, burly in the arms and the chest and soft in the belly, thick mustache and dark skin. He’d laughed like a great bellows, had a thick Israeli accent, and he always knelt on the old cobblestone road to feed the stray cats in the alley scraps of meat at the end of the day, voice and eyes softer than anything. 

He was an artist in the kitchen. Challah, shakshuka, alfredo sauce, sandwiches– Bettino used to slap hands away from his lunches at school, and every night at seven in the evening they would sit around a small television behind the counter of the shop, and they would eat dinner together and watch the news. His father would do the numbers, and he would ask him what he learned in school that day, and help him with his homework. His great meaty hand would rest atop his son’s fluffy hair, and he’d tease him about how much he looked like his mother. Tell him to eat his vegetables, or he’d be as small as her too. 

He taught him how to play football, to be light on his feet and mean with his elbows, grinning and clapping every time he noticed him playing a pick up game in the alley behind the shop, no matter how tired his eyes were and how his shoulders threatened to slump until he was as hunched as an old man. Bettino would circle, and then sprint, and launch himself at his father, and he would always catch him with a great belly laugh and an exaggerated groan, and set him down and ruffle his hair. 

He’d never seen his father cry, but one night when he was sixteen he caught his parents arguing in harsh whispers when he was sneaking back inside. He couldn’t make out what exactly was being said, but he knew his father had done wrong. He was begging for forgiveness, voice shaking, and his mother was tense and spitting angry, cursing him to high heaven. He’d done something, made a deal with someone, and he could tell they were afraid. 

It’s funny, this is the only moment he can remember of the two of them together. All of the family dinners, and the walks in the park, and he can’t remember the words they said at any moment except this one. He remembers the anger, and the fear, and he remembers deciding to avoid being at home. 

More than anything else he remembers being seventeen and hearing the exhaustion in his mother’s voice when she called him, and told him to meet her at the morgue. The broken noise she’d made when they’d walked in, and they’d seen the shredded corpse laid out and cleaned. She’d looked grey under the fluorescent lights, and the smell had made him gag. She’d not moved from the doorway, so he stepped forward. The corpse’s face was almost entirely missing, and something like hope kindled in his chest. Perhaps?

No. The scar from his ACL surgery, the tattoo on his shoulder– it was him. His father was laying on the slab before him, bloated from what had to have been days in the river. How long had it been since he’d been home? How long had it been since he’d seen him? How long had he been missing, and Battista hadn’t even known? The questions had tightened steel bands around his chest until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He’d signed the papers for his silent and listless mother, taken her hand in his own, and walked her out. 

They’d walked home, despite the cold December night. He’d let go of her only to throw up in the bushes, and wipe his mouth. They didn’t speak when they got home. They didn’t speak for days, weeks. His throat started to hurt from all the things he wanted to say, from how badly he wanted to scream and curse. He buried his father, and his mother said nothing at all. 

She sat, and she waited. And he left.


End file.
